A Penchant for the Machiavellian.

Now you still speak of day old hate, though your whole world has gone up into flames. Isn't it great to find that you're really worth nothing? And how safe it is to feel safe...

I'm sitting here with my fingers hovering just above the keys. I need to write but I can't kick this into gear. I had important things to discuss with you, gracious geese. My gaggle is gagging for some serious output - some ARTiculation. I'm hard up for cash, no food but bread or rice. I'm hard up for most everything. Even words, and that is the most vexing issue at hand.

Revelatory remembrance. I came across trinkets I'd failed to see the first time, on my second loop around. I saw the minuscule hints that all wasn't right. I saw more clearly the blatant cracks in the armoury. Why am I so stubborn? I refused to face facts for so long and it all went west like the Greyhound bus. West to the sea. Oh, I'm singin' blues for my baby and me.

And that song came to me in a moment of clarity. A song they played - a meditation - at my father's funeral. Seems strange that Elton would get a look-in, don't it? I suppose it mightn't have seemed so strange to others, but I never thought the old man liked EJ. I guess, like everything else in this farcical existence, I didn't know as much about my dad as I thought I did. At least - if he didn't like that star-glasses wearing, gap-toothed motherfucker - we put it right by playing Stairway To Heaven as we took him from the room.

We all appreciate a classic when we hear it.

Don't ask me how I came to be writing about Elton John and the funeral. It's such a bore - though I don't use the word readily. Only boring people get bored. I stick by that statement. Wow. Stop the presses! There's some real insight here. You wouldn't want to go to print without a front page laden with these golden words. We're talking best sales figures ever here. We're talking all sorts of print media awards. We're talking, but we're going in circles. Why don't you just let it go, kid?

Besides, I am excited and intrigued by a new friend. More beautiful than possibly anything I've yet laid eyes on. Stunningly fucking beautiful. And talent pouring (Or poring? Think about it...) from her. No spelling errors. Witty words. Wisdom. And a voice of velvet. Some people come from average places to make above average impacts on the world. We shall see, huntsmen, whether she has this impact on me. Things are looking up on one side of the fence. Like always, it's the opposite side from mine. Has the grass always been so green, or is it all just perception? Imperception is probably more likely, but I digress...

And you will be wondering, wondering who I speak of. None of you know her, and neither do I. I'm sure as the dickens gunna find out though. Bet your sassy britches I am. I'm like Dog the Bounty Hunter, except without the stupid haircut, dumb clothes, idiotic wife and shitty job. Yeah, you heard me.

Step to it.

Getting into a bit more of a flow now. Still can't remember those important items I was supposed to bring up for discussion. Perhaps it is for the best. This way we can focus on the positives. This way we can go wit' it, flow wit', grow wit' it, Jive Turkeys. You know what I'm talkin' 'bout. Let's not play the innocence game. It's so last minute. Get with the times, baby girl. We gon' ride outta this ma-fucking town and ne'er look back. We gon' watch the sun come up while we head west along the highway. You wondering how? Rear vision. 20/20 vision in my hindsight. Get it. It's a crime, but we're outlaws now anyway. You, me and the five-oh ain't got no beef. Let's keep it that way, 'less you're feeling stroppy or adventurous.

But enough '60s boogaloo talk. It's getting on my rawest nerve. Like salt on an ulcer, I'm flaring up.

What concert are you going to next?